


Don't Be Afraid

by Crowgirl



Series: Boston 'Verse [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Titles for this section come from the ever-amazing Melissa Etheridge's <a href="http://youtu.be/ZUCwwXMbnas">"Talkin' with My Angels."</a></p></blockquote>





	Don't Be Afraid

‘So what do you do for a good time around here?’

Castiel looks up blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

Dean is looking out the window, watching people on the paved path beside the Charles River. He twists back to Castiel. ‘Well, you don’t spend all your time reading, right?’

Castiel looks down at the book on his knee, glances at his laptop beside him on the couch, then looks back up at Dean. ‘I am not...much of a socializer, Dean.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’ Dean shifts forward, propping his elbows on his knees. ‘You must have restaurants you like, right? I mean, c’mon, not every place in Boston can be like that shithole.’

‘The Club? No. It is...one of a kind.’

‘I kinda guessed.’

Castiel shrugs. ‘So what are you asking about?’

‘Your favorite restaurant. You’ve got to have one -- everyone’s got one.’

Castiel nods, closing his book on one finger. ‘Yes -- there are a couple that I like very much. Do you -- want to go out?’

Dean stands up, brushes his hands over his shirt. ‘If this’ll do for clothes.’

Castiel looks at him, then stands up, dropping his book on the coffee table. ‘You do not travel prepared for black tie?’ He steps a little closer, tugging a fold in Dean’s t-shirt straight and half-accidentally letting his fingers trail over the other man’s ribs through the cloth.

Dean grins at him. ‘Sorry, left my tux in the other suitcase.’

Castiel has a brief vision of Dean in full formal dress and swallows hard. ‘I...imagine we can find somewhere to accommodate that.’

‘Nowhere too loud, okay?’ Dean slides their hands together, interweaving their fingers, and Castiel feels the sudden, pleasant shock of warm, slightly rough skin against his. ‘I wanna be able to hear you.’

Castiel feels himself flush and sees the corner of Dean’s mouth twist up. 

It’s been three weeks since they met and ten days since Castiel recovered from the bout of flu that had laid him in bed for the best part of three days. In the succeeding days, they hadn’t done -- much. But what they had done was enough to fuel Castiel’s fantasies for the next decade. Fantasies about kissing alone could take up at least two years of that time. Dean was a kisser to dream about, seeming to know almost better than Castiel did himself what he would like. Sometimes Castiel had found himself seriously wondering if he could come just from having Dean’s mouth on his, but he’d never had the chance to find out because, somehow, there was always a reason to stop before that point.

They had been sleeping together since Castiel was ill and Dean had turned out to be the chastest bedfellow Castiel had ever shared with. Unless they fell asleep together accidentally, he would always offer to move to his own room. He never seemed to take Castiel’s invitation to stay as extending from night to night, and the faint look of surprise on his face whenever Castiel renewed it was both deeply sweet and exceptionally irritating.

It wasn’t that Castiel _wanted_ Dean to assume a proprietorial air over the apartment or anything or assume that this... That this whatever it was was something it wasn’t, but this was something more than over-careful politeness. Castiel had the feeling he was being assessed, weighed in the balance. That Dean was waiting for some cue and wouldn’t just say what it was. Sometimes he caught Dean watching him with a thoughtful expression; if he called the younger man on it, Dean would pass the moment off with a joke. 

The one time Castiel had tried to move beyond kissing into a gentle exploration of Dean’s chest, sliding his hand slowly beneath the hem of the soft, slightly ragged old t-shirt Dean often wore after his evening shower, Dean had said nothing, but his muscles tightened under Castiel’s hand and not in a way that meant pleasure.

Castiel had wanted to keep going -- the warm skin under his fingertips, the slight scratch of hair, the soft angles between muscle and bone were enough to make him want more -- but he couldn’t push forward in the face of Dean’s obvious, if unspoken, discomfort.

That had been two nights ago, and now he was no longer sure what lines he might be allowed to cross, what Dean might be willing to let him try, and what might bring about that silent, watchful stillness again. 

‘So -- what would you like to eat?’

* * *

The restaurant Castiel finally selects is a small, cheerful cafe only a few blocks from the apartment. The night is cold and clear and there’s a sharp wind coming off the river that makes a longer walk seem unappealing.

Ellen remembers him, too, grinning at him as soon as he walks through the door while she deals with a customer at the pastry case. As soon as she can, she hurries him and Dean over to a table near the window and tucked against the brick wall of the pizza oven. 

‘You a regular?’ Dean shrugs off his jacket and sits down, back against the warm brick.

Castiel shakes his head. ‘Not any more -- I used to be.’ When he had first moved into the apartment, he had been able to manage rent and groceries -- and sometimes not those if they fell due on the same week. Ellen had been more than kind by letting him sit for hours on the cafe’s WiFi connection, slipping him day-old pastries or asking him to test new sandwiches, and making sure the water glass as well as the coffee cup stayed full.

* * *

They get back to the apartment late, slightly high off sugar from the pastries Ellen asked them to try and the casual brushing touches they’ve been exchanging all evening. Dean toes off his shoes, drapes his jacket over the back of a chair, and stretches out on the couch, feet over one arm, arching his back up over the other, interlacing his fingers above his head and, as far as Castiel can see, stretching every single muscle from toes to scalp into a taut, delicious line. 

Castiel’s throat goes dry and he is not sure what prompts him to say: ‘Every time you do that, I want to lick you.’

Dean finishes his stretch, sagging back against the arm of the couch and, for a moment or two, Castiel thinks perhaps his chance remark went unheard. Then Dean props himself up on one elbow and grins. ‘So why don’t you?’

Slowly, carefully, Castiel crosses the room, as if the floor under his feet has become suddenly unfamiliar and might trip him up. He drops onto his knees beside the couch and Dean twists on his side to look at him, leaning his head on one hand, the grin a fading shadow. 

Still slowly, Castiel reaches forward and slips his fingers between those of Dean’s free hand, pressing their palms together. He looks up and sees the watchfulness in the back of Dean’s eyes. 

He’s sure that Dean meant the offer honestly, but--- Castiel fixes his eyes on their twined fingers, rubbing his thumb slowly over the almost-healed mark of a burn on the back of Dean’s wrist. ‘Because I...am not sure you want me to.’

If he thinks he’s going to get some crafted response from Dean, he’s disappointed. Dean considers for a minute, nods thoughtfully, then leans forward and kisses him, disentangling their hands so he can slip his fingers around the back of Castiel’s neck and pull him closer. 

Whatever argument Castiel had been building in the back of his head to counter whatever he thought Dean might have been about to say scatters and vanishes. Dean’s mouth is warm, insistent, and, when Castiel can’t resist any more and reaches out to _taste,_ Dean’s tongue still savors of the cinnamon chocolate pastry.

That’s enough to be overwhelming just for a second and Castiel has to pull back, a little embarrassed that he’s out of breath from kissing. But Dean’s flushed and biting at his lips like he wants to pull Castiel back again. 

‘I...I _would,_ Dean, but--’ _God,_ would he. The only problem would be picking a place to start: Dean’s mouth seems like a natural place but that seems to present some very obvious distractions that might stop him from getting any further. And he _wants_ to get further. He’s not sure he’d last, but he wants to try. As it is he has to lean forward and adjust his knees slightly to keep himself from being pinched against his zipper. 

‘So do what you gotta do,’ Dean whispers and pulls him back in.

Castiel lets himself be distracted by the feeling of Dean’s mouth for a moment, but he doesn’t lose track of the knowledge that Dean isn’t comfortable. 

When Dean breaks away to take a deep breath, Castiel traces his fingers lightly over Dean’s free hand, smoothing over the line between palm and wrist, feeling the pull of tendon and muscle below skin.

‘What’cha waitin’ for?’ 

Castiel glances up and sees the same dim shadow in the back of Dean’s eyes. ‘I am not sure you want me to.’

‘What?’ Dean’s mouth quirks up at one corner and he runs his thumb over the corner of Castiel’s mouth. ‘Who kissed who here?’

Castiel smiles back and catches Dean’s hand, threading their fingers together. But the shadow doesn’t fade and he can feel tension in Dean’s arm, as if the younger man would like to pull back -- but isn’t letting himself. ‘You do not seem...comfortable. When I touch you.’ He feels Dean’s heart kick up a beat under his fingertips.

Dean does pull back slightly, pressing himself against the couch cushions and shoving himself up on one elbow. ‘Hey... look, Cas, I like you, okay?’

Castiel nods, hoping that his face does not give away the feeling he has that perhaps _like_ is all there is -- and perhaps not even that. ‘I know.’

‘So --’ Dean tries to gesture, but Castiel has both his hands and he only succeeds in making some sort of abortive jump-rope gesture. ‘So what’s the problem?’

Castiel licks his lips slowly, trying to think of the right thing to say. ‘You...tense. When I touch you. As if...you would rather I did not.’ To demonstrate his point, he lays his hand deliberately along the inside of Dean’s wrist, his fingertips brushing the roll of shirt sleeve below Dean’s elbow. He feels the muscle jump under his palm and Dean curses softly.

Dean slumps back onto the couch, pulling his other hand free and dropping it over his eyes. ‘Look, I...it...’ The sentence trails into silence and Castiel says nothing, lifting his hand slowly off Dean’s arm and settling back on his heels.

The only really good thing he can see about this situation is that if he stays where he is for another few moments, he’ll be able to get up completely without embarrassment. The sudden conviction that Dean has been _humoring_ him is better than a pailful of ice cubes in his lap. There have been worse things done for free room and board he’s sure but not with him involved. 

He hadn’t _asked_ Dean for this -- had been perfectly willing to quash his interest on his own and pretend there was nothing there. This is -- this is -- this is just _insulting._

‘It isn’t you, okay?’ Dean speaks without moving his hand and his voice is a little muffled. 

Castiel stays silent, unsure what he might say if he were to open his mouth. Sulky silence is better than words he can’t take back.

‘Seriously. Cas.’ Dean lifts his hand and cracks open one eye. ‘It _isn’t.’_

‘All right.’

Dean sighs and grinds the heels of both hands into his eyes. ‘I just...I...Look.’ Abruptly, he swings himself up to sitting, planting both feet on the floor to one side of Castiel’s knees. ‘Tell me what to do -- and -- and I’ll do it. And -- I -- I’ll enjoy it, I _swear_ but -- I can’t --’

Castiel swallows hard, willing his stomach to stay in one place. 

‘It isn’t -- I just -- I can’t -- I _want_ to, Cas, I really -- but --’ Dean rubs a thumb over his eyebrow and stares straight ahead as if there were some fascinating view instead of grey-brown blinds.

Castiel swallows again. ‘Dean?’

Dean’s shoulders fall and he slumps in on himself as though Castiel had shouted at him.

Castiel puts a hand on Dean’s knee and, as though that were a signal of some kind, he suddenly has a lapful of Dean and only barely stays upright by grabbing the edge of the couch. Dean’s hands are _everywhere:_ under his shirt, on his back, fingers brushing over his ribs, a thumb teasing at his waistband and everywhere there aren’t hands, there’s Dean’s _mouth_ and Castiel doesn’t know which is worse or better.

‘Dean -- _Dean!’_ Castiel finally manages to grab the man’s wrists and hold his hands away from his body.

Dean looks slightly glazed, cheeks flushed. ‘What? Wasn’t--’

‘This is not about what _I_ want!’ 

‘But you--’ 

‘I do not want you to _make_ yourself to do something because you think that it is what I want! That would make me no better than--’ Castiel hears the rest of the sentence in his head and bites it off.

‘Than I used to be?’ Dean quirks an eyebrow.

_‘No!’_ Castiel hears Dean hiss. He looks down and realises his fingernails are white on Dean’s wrists. Taking a deep breath, he makes his fingers relax. ‘No,’ he repeats, slowly. ‘No better than the men...who--’

‘I took money from for a blowjob behind a dumpster?’

‘Jesus, Dean!’ Castiel lets go of his arms with a jerk, feeling his face contort.

‘What? Don’t make it into somethin’ it wasn’t.’ Dean shoves himself back onto the couch. ‘It wasn’t some romance novel where I was the fainting virgin and they were the lord of the manor taking advantage of me.’

‘That is not the _point--’_

‘So what is?’ Dean shrugs. ‘It’s not like sex is some huge mystery. You want it, I want it--’

Castiel closes his eyes and pinches at the bridge of his nose. 

When Castiel says nothing, concentrating on evening out his breath and _not_ simply starting to shout whatever comes into his head first, Dean speaks again, his voice flat. ‘Or maybe y’don’t.’ 

‘What?’ Castiel drops his hand, staring up at Dean incredulously but the Dean looks back blandly, all expression gonefrom his face. 

‘Wouldn’t blame you--’ He shrugs. ‘I mean, I know ‘m clean and all but--’

‘Jesus _Christ!’_ Castiel doesn’t even have the chance to bite that back; it comes out in a shout before he can stop it and Dean snaps upright, blinking at him. ‘This is _not_ about whether you have a clean bill of health or were a fainting virgin or -- or -- or how many men you blew behind a dumpster!’ 

Castiel jerks himself to his feet, dumping Dean unceremoniously on the floor, feeling his cheeks burn, knowing he must look a complete idiot but totally unable to stop himself. ‘Every time I have tried to touch you, you tense -- like -- like it’s _painful_ to have my hands on you. Do you think I _enjoy_ that! That -- that it gets me _off?_ You...you -- you there like -- like --’ Castiel waves a hand in the air, trying to summon the words he wants out of nothingness. ‘--like some kind of -- of -- and -- and I will _not_ do that! If this -- if I -- if you don’t want this then -- then--’

‘Then hit the road?’ Dean asks. His voice is cool enough but his cheeks are flushed bright and his eyes are sparkling as if he’s either going to start shouting back or start crying.

‘God _damn_ it! Is that what you think this is! That I’ve been -- that I would --’ Castiel bites his teeth together hard and forces himself to take a breath. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears and he has that lightheaded, sick feeling he remembers from the truly epic fights with Zach.

‘You may stay. Here.’ Castiel has to pause between every few words or risk simply starting to shout again. ‘For as long. As you need. Without doing--’ 

That’s too dangerous. He has to back away and try again.

‘For as long as you need.’ And that’s as far as he can get. The anger, the misery are clogging in his chest and his throat and making it hard to think. All he wants to do is get across to Dean that he doesn’t expect _payment_ \-- and even if he _did_ , it certainly would not be _sex_ for payment because that was the worst kind of disgusting he’d ever been through and there was absolutely no way he was putting another person through that. 

‘Cas, I--’ Dean moves to stand up and Castiel knows as clearly as if someone had handed him a card with the words on it that if Dean tries to touch him right now he will almost undoubtedly hit him.

So he leaves him standing.

**Author's Note:**

> Titles for this section come from the ever-amazing Melissa Etheridge's ["Talkin' with My Angels."](http://youtu.be/ZUCwwXMbnas)


End file.
